


The Personal Account of Bilbo Baggins, Upon Finding the Ring of Power

by yubiwamonogatari



Category: Lovecraft - Fandom, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Bilbo Baggins' true account of finding the One Ring, For Kelly, Gen, In Lovecraftian style
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-20
Updated: 2016-02-20
Packaged: 2018-05-22 07:12:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6070024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yubiwamonogatari/pseuds/yubiwamonogatari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>HIGHLY CONFIDENTIAL</p>
<p>S-CLASS LEVEL CLEARANCE ONLY</p>
<p>HIGHLY CONFIDENTIAL</p>
<p>The following fragment of text was recovered from a 'Hobbit-Hole', one of the few remaining structures in the Greensworth area of [REDRACTED]. Carbon dating shows these papers to be over 500,000 years old, as per usual when dealing with artefacts of this nature. [REDRACTED] has provided the following translation of said papers, which were written in [REDRACTED], a branch of 'Westron'.</p>
<p>ANY BREACH OF SECURITY WILL RESULT IN TERMINATION OF OFFENDING PERSONS.</p>
<p>HIGHLY CONFIDENTIAL</p>
<p>S-CLASS LEVEL CLEARANCE ONLY</p>
<p>HIGHLY CONFIDENTIAL</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Personal Account of Bilbo Baggins, Upon Finding the Ring of Power

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mcmanatea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mcmanatea/gifts).



> Written for the wonderful [Kelly](http://www.mcmanatea.tumblr.com), because it was her birthday! She asked for some Lovecraftian hobbit-y goodness, and I've done my best to provide! I hope you enjoy it bb!

 

 

HIGHLY CONFIDENTIAL

S-CLASS LEVEL CLEARANCE ONLY

HIGHLY CONFIDENTIAL

The following fragment of text was recovered from a 'Hobbit-Hole', one of the few remaining structures in the Greensworth area of [REDRACTED]. Carbon dating shows these papers to be over 500,000 years old, as per usual when dealing with artefacts of this nature. [REDRACTED] has provided the following translation of said papers, which were written in [REDRACTED], a branch of 'Westron'.

ANY BREACH OF SECURITY WILL RESULT IN TERMINATION OF OFFENDING PERSONS.

HIGHLY CONFIDENTIAL

S-CLASS LEVEL CLEARANCE ONLY

HIGHLY CONFIDENTIAL

 

BEGINNING OF DOCUMENT:

 

 

In relating the circumstances which have led to my recuperation within this refuge for the weary hearted, I am aware that the nature of the Last Homely House East of the Sea will create a natural doubt as to the credibility of my narrative. Being a very old hobbit of one hundred and twelve, and often referred to queer, cracked, or odd, I find it logical to believe my tale will be met with scorn by many but a select few privy to the nature of the War of the Ring, and my warnings shall go forth unheeded into this world. It is an unfortunate fact that despite the vast wonders Middle Earth has to offer, men, elves, dwarves, and hobbits are often unwilling to consider what they, themselves, have not experienced; and are often too narrow of mind to contemplate what may move in the grim shadows beneath the stars.

My name is Bilbo Baggins, a hobbit of the Shire. Having been raised in Hobbiton, my childhood was idyllic, and I had substantial wealth to my name. Unfitted for commercial work and being an only child, I sought refuge in strange books from far away lands, and taught myself the many poetic languages of the elves so that I might delve deeper into their ancient tomes; spending my youth lost in legend or exploring the rolling hills and little rivers of the Shire. Losing my beloved parents at a tender age found myself with considerable assets and sole master of Bag End, but without company other than fantastical tales of adventure and my mother's crockery. I quickly grew lonesome, and retreated from my boyish adventures, concerning myself with what I considered to be matters of import - namely my father's accounts, and the knick-knacks my parents felt had value.

The arrival of Thorin Oakenshield and his company of dwarves, lead to my door by a certain Gandalf the Grey – of whose name you are undoubtedly familiar with – was at first an unexpected and unwelcome surprise. Lured from the comfort of my armchair by the dark morass of a King's song, I found myself at the mercy of untold horrors whilst partaking of that strange adventure. Indeed, though you will scoff, I battled gargantuan cave trolls, polypous goblins and their foetid king, swarthy orcs, hideous wargs, the accursed dragon, Smaug, and even played my humble part in the Battle of the Five Armies.

However, this being a tale of quite another creature altogether, I have gathered my wits enough to describe to you the epic of Thorin Oakenshield in another tome, which I call 'There and Back Again: A Hobbit's Tale'. Due to some indescribable dread or some dark fear lurking beneath my waking thoughts, I have not been as truthful in that manuscript as I will be now in revealing the true tale of the dank creature Gollum, and the One Ring, as I now know it to be.

The One Ring to which I refer is of seemingly simple gold, perfect in appearance as the day it was forged. Its gleaming metal holds no tarnish or scratch, and always it feels warm to the touch. Birthed in the fires of Mount Doom by the unholy dark of Gorgoroth it is – as I have learned with great personal sacrifice – a treacherous and beastly creation, yet the most entrancing object I have ever beheld.

I shall never forget the day when first I stumbled upon the half-hidden ring of doom. Aching from my tumble down a slimy chasm deep within the Misty Mountains as my companions were captured by foul goblin hoards and dragged to their dystopian paradise, the preternatural draw of the One Ring roused me from my stupor. Heeding its transcendental lure, I crawled through the peculiar muck found only in the very deep places of the earth until I could take the ring between my eager fingers. When, upon clutching the golden band, I suddenly heard the sing-song call of some antediluvian terror, I had no knowledge of what I had stolen – nor indeed what horror and misery it would bring upon myself, and my beloved nephew Frodo in the many years to come.

The charnel cave was littered with chewed upon goblin bones, a hideous dinner table of Gollum's own making. Spurred on by a voice which must have oozed from the rancid soul of the ring, I staggered to my bruised and aching feet and moved cautiously towards the source of the wailing. Indeed, I had not much choice in the matter. The black, chilly tunnel sloped ever downwards. Despair seized my heart. Behind me stood only stone, the walls of the chasm I had tumbled down utterly inescapable. What other path was I to take but onwards, and towards the primeval howling of the forgotten Gollum?

A spell was upon me, and my heart leaped with madness I can but ill describe. Singing as if possessed by some Melkorian evil, the creature's song wound around my ears. Though it has been many years now since I first heard that haunting tune, I have done my utmost to recall the lyric:

_The cold hard lands,_   
_They bites our hands,_   
_They gnaws our feet._   
_The rocks and stones_   
_Are like old bones_   
_All bare of meat._   
_But stream and pool_   
_Is wet and cool:_   
_So nice for feet!_   
_Alive without breath;_   
_As cold as death;_   
_Never thirsting, ever drinking;_   
_Clad in mail never clinking._   
_Drowns on dry land,_   
_Thinks an island_   
_Is a mountain;_   
_Thinks a fountain_   
_Is a puff of air._   
_So sleek, so fair!_   
_What a joy to meet!_   
_We only wish_   
_To catch a fish,_   
_So juicy-sweet!_

Hearing those dreadful words hissed and spat out into the glutinous dark only hastened my steps towards a more suitable hiding place than the entrance to Gollum's charnel cave. Perched on a solitary mound erupting from the dark waters of the fetid, underground lake, the rank being tore with ancient ferocity into the carcass of a goblin. Emboldened by his obliviousness to my advance, and most likely hurried forth by the siren song of the ring, ever I crept closer. As I hid myself behind a jut of black rock, I slid my trusty sword from its sheath with trepidation, not knowing whether I might find myself in need of its sharpened edge. The dull blue shimmer from the elven forged steel seemed suddenly excessively bright in the dank dark of that crypt. Behind my humble shelter the crack and snap of sharp teeth crunching through brittle bone served as a musical accompaniment to my pounding heart.

Clutching the hilt of my weapon tighter, I found myself suddenly plunged into a deeper darkness as that curious, magical glow was extinguished – along with the life of the pitiful goblin in Gollum's hands. Indeed, I had not even thought as to whether or not the goblin was alive throughout its ordeal, and the realisation that it had been eaten alive just feet from my own self set a quaking in my limbs that I could not control.

It was only after several seconds had passed that I realised the gibbering song of Gollum's invention was no more, and silence laid thick and heavy in the opaque dark. I was frozen, riveted to my seat by a grovelling fear which I had never felt before. That tenebrous being was surely slinking towards me, intent of robbing me of my life. And then a second horror took possession of my soul.

Gollum would try to take my precious treasure from me. I had began to feel that the ring was _mine_ , though it had barely been in my hands. Whether it was fear for my own life, or fear that golden band would be stolen from myself – as I had stolen it from its previous master – I do not know, but as the creature Gollum leaped at my trembling form I brought Sting up with all the grace and promise of a true warrior, and trained the point to the hollow of the being's throat.

No words can describe the macabre nature of that noisome beast. Long, spindly limbs protruded from a pathetic trunk, his sallow skin stretched over bones, and it seemed as if the undead crouched before me, spluttering and snarling. Pulpy, mashed lips smeared over his nine rotten teeth, and he possessed the eyes of some bulbous, forgotten horror that dwelt in the endless dark of Ulmo's most hidden places; untouched by the light and love of Eru Íluvatar, and embraced only by the dreadful arms of Gorgoroth himself. Indeed, even now contemplating his barbarous form sends shakes through my body.

How I wish I could forget those bloated eyes! I have felt their lingering gaze ever since – and I fear my beloved nephew Frodo will bear the same burden, for he had dealings with Gollum far longer than I was subjected to, and with far more devastating results. Frodo's tale of Gollum – whom he calls only Smeagol – is a tale for another book, however, and so I shall continue with my account.

I should not hope to convey in mere words the unutterable hideousness that can dwell in absolute silence and barren immensity. But between the roots of the mountain and betwixt that ethereal plain between living and dead that the accursed ring lures its bearer into, Gollum survived.

The odour of Gollum's skeletal form was maddening; but I was too much concerned with graver things to mind so slight an evil, and rose boldly to my feet. The blood of my ancestors roared in my veins as I demanded that the abhorrent creature show me the way out of his hovel. Flicking my sword to and fro in what I had hoped was a threatening manner, I watched with lurid fascination as Gollum slunk this way and that, all the while snarling and hissing to himself in that delirious voice I hear still when grappling with night terrors.

“Bless us and splash us, my precioussss! I guess it’s a choice feast; at least a tasty morsel it’d make us, gollum!”

It seems to me now that Gollum's fetid belly must have been filled prior by his meal of goblin, for I hold little doubt that the festering creature could have leaped upon me without warning, and torn the flesh from my bones had he been truly hungry.

I demanded a name, but no answer was forthcoming; only more leering questions as to the nature of my being – for the forgotten beast had never before laid his protruding eyes on a hobbit such as myself, and he showed the infantile curiosity held by those who have been left alone for a long, long time. Indeed, save from the goblins, bats, and foul, slimy, blind fish he plucked from those oily waters, I was the first living soul he had encountered in centuries.

There, in the fiendish dark of the bowels of the Misty Mountains, I made perhaps my gravest error – second only, it could be construed, to picking up the One Ring itself. I told the creature Gollum my name, and my origin. Contemplating what drove me to do so now, in the safety of this elven home, I have come to believe it was some gangrenous quality of that band of hateful magic in my pocket that forced my teeth and tongue into spilling their truthful words. Frightened beyond measure and despairing, fearing my life and those of my companions would end in this tomb – our bones falling to complete the charnel caves – Lord Elrond has often mentioned that the ring's insidious power seeps into the souls of the weak; and in those horrible moments deep under the good, green earth, my soul was weaker than I care to remember.

Despite my clear frailty, the creature continued to question me, demanding to know what I carried in my hands, and then whether or not I was fond of riddles. Being a well educated hobbit of the Shire, and owning several ancient volumes of poetry collected from all over Middle Earth – though none could compare to the great libraries of Erebor, nor Lord Elrond's person collection – I curtly informed Gollum I was familiar with a few such word games. This pleased the unsightly creature, and he began to ululate and leap around on all fours like something possessed by the very fires of Gorgoroth. After several moments of hellish delight he turned to me, and in his infernal, rasping tone, spoke once more.

_“What has roots as nobody sees,_   
_Is taller than trees,_   
_Up, up it goes,_   
_And yet never grows?”_

Naturally I gave the answer swiftly, and with some air of confidence. Whether this pleased or infuriated Gollum, I could not say – but he offered to me a deal of sorts. Namely, were I to win this game of riddles he would escort me from this malignant cave and through several secret corridors known only to him, out from under the very noses of the goblins and safely to where sunlight would once again grace my vision. However, were I to lose, Gollum would devour me – much in the same way he had eviscerated the unfortunate goblin.

I cannot say I agreed to his terms with much delight, but I considered myself an intelligent fellow, and outwitting this odious being was well within my mental capacities. Besides, I had the comfort of a sharp blade in my hands, and due to several months on the road – not to mention several sword-fighting lessons from the young heirs of Durin, Fíli and his brother Kíli – I felt should Gollum chose to lunge, I had some chance of fighting him off and making an attempt at escape, no matter how ill-fated the endeavour.

I replied, in kind, with a riddle of my own. It had become apparent that Gollum and I had ancestry in common, for though our rhymes differed, the words seemed to flow from some similar corpus deep within our souls, and despite the creature's antiquity he quickly guessed some riddles that I have not encountered outside the borders of the Shire. As repellent as this thought is to all who hold some moral decency, I began to feel the first stirrings of pity for this accursed beast. I wondered, then, if he had had a family once, and how it was that he lived here in such a noxious crypt.

Being now far more educated in all manner of lore concerning the One Ring, I have come to understand that Gollum was, indeed, a hobbit-like creature long ago – before our ancestors left our peculiar homeland along the Anduin river. The tales concerning the emigration to the Shire, and the exact reason as to why my noble forefathers undertook such a dangerous and perilous journey is lost to the eons of time, but during my studies I have learned that a few such ancestors declined to leave their idylls. Instead they dwelt still on those murky banks, forming colonies which have now come to their inescapable doom, and spent their time on the swift waters. Gollum was indeed one of these creatures, and Frodo learned from his own mouth that the One Ring had been slowly washed down the mighty Anduin, where it was finally snared from the muck by Deagol, the cousin of Gollum – or Smeagol, as he was once known.

Trading such riddles back and forth proved to be an almost excruciating exercise, for despite my best attempts, Gollum's mind was sly, and he had remembered many of the old rhymes I was able to conjure from the foggy shadows of my frightened memory.

I was saved from Gollum's final and most wretched riddle by sheer chance. Whilst searching desperately for an answer to his vile sport I cried out desperately for more time in which to think, but all that escaped my lips was:

“Time! Time!”

By some Valar-fated luck this was nothing short of the answer for which Gollum had been searching; though he had long since lost his patience and rather than skulking around the shores of that unspeakable lake, he had come to sit very close to me in the most off-putting manner. His breath whistled and rattled around his stringy neck, and his skin was so unclean I thought to myself that he must have been born of this antique mud, belched forth by the rotten womb of the sickly lake.

“It’s got to ask uss a quesstion, my preciouss, yes, yess, yesss. Jusst one more question to guess, yes, yess,” said Gollum.

Panicking, I patted and pinched and rocked myself, desperately churning over riddles and rhymes from my childhood – but all were fragments of something long forgotten, and in the poisonous gloom of Gollum's cave I became utterly unable to invent or recall any such appropriate question. Running my hands over my pocket caused my fingers to brush the parasitic bulge of the ring in my waistcoat pocket, and I spoke aloud without thought, for I had forgotten – in my waking mind – what I had picked up beforehand.

“What have I got in my pocket?”

Being a creature of tempestuous temper at his most carefree, this question sent Gollum into paroxysms of rage and despair, and for a while he flung his monstrous body against the rock while he wailed into the foetid dark. Calming down and regaining what little composure such a creature could nurture, he demanded three guesses to my question, and readily I agreed. After all, how was he to guess the nature of the treasure I had found when I myself had forgotten it so completely?

“Handses!”

“Wrong!” cried I, triumphantly – having just removed my fingers from said pocket.

“Knife!”

“Wrong! Last guess!”

I felt victory was upon me. Watching the creature smash his fists and pustular body against the unforgiving ground as he attempted to answer my question brought to me a wicked sense of delight, and I began to laugh as if we were sharing some great joke. That is, of course, the result of such sordid company in such a unutterable setting, and with the seeping malevolence of the One Ring so close to hand.

“String! Or nothing!” Gollum finally shrieked.

“Both wrong,” I exclaimed as I leaped to my feet and brandished my sword with all the bravery of a solider.

As you will know, riddle games are of an ancient sort and hold an antiquity of tantamount credibility – so much so no creature would dare to cheat; but gazing upon the frightful countenance of that rancid creature I did not doubt for a moment he was eager to end my life, whether or not I had emerged victorious. Once more I demanded he showed me to the exit, and reminded him of his promise. Muttering and skulking before the pointed tip of Sting, Gollum declared he had some items to gather, and slunk into the encroaching dark. Shivering and trembling with the weight of my victory, I waited.

Though time passes differently so far from the sun, it felt as if I had waited barely a few moments before an infernal screaming and screeching echoed out from that accursed lake. I began to feel the stirrings of abject terror in my heart, and my mind turned instantly towards my precious treasure.

“Where iss it? Where iss it? Losst it is, my precious, lost, lost! Curse us and crush us, my precious is lost!”

I called out, demanding to know what the foul creature had lost, and reminding him of his promise to lead me to safety. But my questions were ignored, and instead Gollum began to ask me what it was that I had concealed in my pockets. It is curious how sluggish Gollum was in his suspicion of me – no doubt another obscene trick of the One Ring, which was keen to remain in my hands rather than those of its former master. Long before Gollum's suspicion grew into a storm in his mind, I knew in my quivering heart that I had his precious in my pocket – for I, too, believed it precious beyond all comprehension.

It is then, you understand, that I slipped that putrid ring onto my finger for the first time, and fled into the stagnant dark.

The ring possesses curious powers. Powers that seem at first innocent, and only once it has its bearer fully ensnared can its victim begin to realise what loathsome magic it works. Sliding the ring on had rendered me invisible, and had thrown my soul to that ethereal place betwixt the living and the dead that so few have seen - and fewer still have survived.

Ah, that world! What mortal words can describe it? You will think my description lacking, but for my own sake – and for all those who have borne the ring – I must try. First and foremost, there is a chill in that vast expanse; a chill that begins deep in ones bones and spreads slowly outwards, leeching dry the last warmth you possess. Cadavers, lain to eternal sleep in their musty tombs, are warmer than those wearing the wretched ring. By dark magic your mind is separated from your body, and all outlines become wisps of fantastical spirit – indeed, you see the very souls of those around you. Their hue is changed by whatever magic or curse lays upon them, for Gollum moved as if an eclipse – the last remnants of whatever desolated goodness he once held naught but a bright rim around him. Elves are beacons of pure light in that withered wasteland, dwarves a lesser brightness, but men lesser still. Orcs and other foul things present as pure black – voids of evil into which all fairness cannot escape. The surroundings shift, torn between the mortal world and that of the dead, and all takes on a faint, luminous glow – against which terrible creatures are as clear as shadows under the summer sun. There is also a sense that you are floating, that you do not belong in that shadow-land. It is also important to note that once you return to the realm of the living, you feel you no longer quite feel as if you belong here, either.

Yet, despite the displacement of the very soul, that primeval place has an alien comfort to it. After much thought and study, I have drawn the conclusion that it is the Void of which the ancient lore books speak, the crevice in which Eru Íluvatar first conceived his visions of Middle Earth, and the Void in which Melkor walked – searching for his purpose - subsequently condemned to inhabit after his crimes. Walking in that ephemeral gloom, one treads the very line between the everlasting Void and all its fearsome horrors – many of which plague me in the forms of unconscionable nightmares, dreams filled with transcendental monsters with forms greater than the very earth, writing and trapped in the Void, their foul tangles of polypous, slithering limbs forever reaching to ensnare me and doom me to joining them in their infinite agony.

Realising I still had no clues as to the exit of the charnel cave, I paused by the entrance I had snuck in from and pressed my quivering body against those eerie walls. Much to my surprise – for I did not know then the powers of the ring – Gollum dashed straight past me with incoherent gibbers concerning a back-door. With much trepidation and no other choice, I followed him into that menacing tunnel.

Here my story ends with little more to tell. Gollum lead me to my exit by no intention of his own, and I was quick-witted enough to slip through the sleepy hoard of goblins waiting by their door, soon rejoining my companions on the other side of the pass of the Misty Mountains. I have used the ring many times since then, and have never willingly described truly the events of that preternatural time in Gollum's cave. Indeed, my tale – and my warnings concerning the use of such magic, should the art ever be rediscovered, will undoubtedly go forth unheeded into the endless expanse of time. Perhaps, in the distant future, magic will take on different forms and be understood in a myriad of ways, and once again the power to level cities and destroy great swathes of lives will be recreated. Nevertheless, I find I must believe there will always be goodness in this world, and that beings such as Gollum will become obsolete.

There is good in this world, and it is worth fighting for.

 

END OF DOCUMENT.

HIGHLY CONFIDENTIAL

S-CLASS LEVEL CLEARANCE ONLY

HIGHLY CONFIDENTIAL


End file.
